I had a epiphany a few weeks ago. Something clicked in my brain and now everything makes sense.
Sometimes all it takes is a simple piece of dog shit….
Let me start from the beginning.
When I first moved to Sydney I made the decision I would ride to work. I hadn’t ridden a pushy since I was a teenager.
‘Where in the hell would you go to buy a pushy on the cheap?’ I thought to myself.
Hey there Valiant readers!
This is the story about how I came to find my beautiful Val…
Yes I had a crack at some poetry! It was fun! Enjoy!
By Sheila Hart
My names Sheila but my family calls me Sheil’s,
A little old Magna was my first set of wheels.
After that came Foz the Falcon, he had lots of go,
But I wanted a classic I could put in a show.
Hello 2017 Valiant Readers!
Have we all set goals for this year?
There’s always the goals I set that I know will loose traction by about February, these include;
Ahhhh – the humble honey joy! I remember eating shit tonnes of these as a kid. They would make an appearance at every birthday party alongside the Coco pop chocolate crackles!
Cornflakes, well they’re vegan thank god, but honey, *high pitched squeaky voice* wellllll….. not so much.
Dear angry vegans,
Something happened online last week that compelled me to write this to you.
You know who you are, the angriest of them all.
I get it, there’s a lot of dickheads in the world that love to stir shit up.
Is it surprising for you, dear angry vegans, to hear that these dickheads find your anger entertaining?
Let me explain the whole situation.
I love being apart of the vegan FaceBook pages. We get to discuss our dilemmas, share recipes, help each other and rate vegan pizza’s. To be accepted into these groups you must go through a full background check. Once approved the administrators call and conduct a phone interview. The questions asked are to ensure that you are actually vegan. They drill you with questions like; ‘Name four vegan documentaries. Name three well known vegans. What does Gary mean to you?’
When I really love something, I consume it in vast quantities until I can no longer physically stand it. I don’t snack on unhealthy stuff in regular small amounts like normal people. I prefer to have abnormally large amounts, irregularly.
I don’t have a lot of junk food in the house. If I buy shitty sugar laden food, you better believe it’s not gunna survive long in the pantry. I’m like one girl piranha, going on feeding frenzies, consuming everything within reach.
One – The Beginning.
I had a happy childhood. My mum and dad grew up on farms in fairly remote areas of Victoria. Our family enjoyed going camping, hunting and fishing. It was normal to be apart of the killing, skinning and gutting of animals before preparing them to eat. We had minimal junk food and I ate what I was given, which was usually meat and vegetables. We had cereal for breakfasts and homemade sandwiches for lunches. If we ever whinged that we were hungry we were told to take our pick from the fruit bowl.
Two – The Pharmacy.
The last story was a touch dark and I promised something happier! Please don’t think less of me………
I remember the beginning. Make-up always on, hair perfectly done, flaps always waxed, sexy undies everyday and all outfits planned to perfection.
From a young age I have always been my own best friend. I love my partner, family and group of good girlfriends, but I love hanging out by myself. Some of my best memories are travelling by myself and being alone with my thoughts. My grade 5 school teacher had a ‘chat’ to mum once. He was concerned about me, “She has a group of great girlfriends, but I see her wandering alone a lot of the time at recess”. When I was asked about it, I didn’t know what to say except; “I just like being alone sometimes”. Still to this day, if I don’t get enough alone time, I feel, I just, ….. I don’t feel myself. I don’t feel sad or isolated like some people do, rather I feel content with the thoughts and feelings I experience. It’s just me, hanging out with me having a good old time.
I grew up in a small town called Ballarat. Having a younger and older brother, I was a bit of a tomboy and loved to hunt and fish. Some of my earliest memories are hanging onto the back of a blue Toyota ute, whistling up foxes and chasing down rabbits. My brothers, cousins and I would eagerly run to fetch the rabbits once they had been shot. If the shot didn’t kill the rabbits, we would pick them up wounded, kicking and squealing and bring them back to the ute. Dad would wring their necks by holding onto their hind legs with one hand and stretching their necks with the other over his hip. Done correctly, the rabbit would stop squealing instantly and fall limp, eyes bulging and head flopping loosely. On really cold nights I would pile the dead rabbits in my lap to keep me warm.
My partner has a big python named Larry and no, we don’t have cute names for each others goods and chattels. Well, actually, we do. But I’m not telling you what they are.
Larry the Darwin Carpet Python is a jolly old boy, he’s three meters long, super placid, inquisitive and loves a cuddle.
When Larry started getting too big for his rock, my partner Daniel and I found ourselves at Pet Barn one afternoon, looking for a new home for Larry. As I wandered around, I came across a cat in cage. In fact there were two cats, in the bottom cage was a stunning black male with yellowish eyes. He sat with his tail neatly wrapped around his legs and peered out into the store with that classic ‘you must worship me’ cat look. Just below eye level in the top cage, is a tortoise shell female with huge eyes and a big fat belly. She sit’s crouched at the back of her cage, ready to pounce. She doesn’t seem interested in the outside world and has a real agitated look about her .
I never liked cats. We had one growing up, a ginger boy named Tang. He was an outside cat, no collar, he would roam around all day hunting and playing. Then at night he would come inside for a bit of warmth and food. I still remember dad putting Tang’s whole upper body in a gumboot, while he held his legs up and cut off his nutsack. That’s just how old school country people roll I guess. There was no way we would have ever taken an animal, pet or not, to the vet. “You know what’s cheaper than a vet? A Bullet.” dad would say.